


If I Can't Love You As a Lover

by burninglikeabridge



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Break Up, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 02:24:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burninglikeabridge/pseuds/burninglikeabridge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has left.<br/>John is nothing.<br/>And then the most unexpected thing happens; and John has to do what he knew he would all along. </p><p>Johnlock angst. br /><br/>Title is from La Dispute's Andria, and the lyrics go as follows:<br/>And if I do not miss a part of you, a part of me is dead.<br/>If I can't love you as a lover, I will love you as a friend.<br/>And I will lay a bed before you, keep you safe until the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Will Love You As A Friend

John lays alone in their bed.  
It's cold.  
It feels empty. Something is missing. So many things are missing.   
Including his heart.   
But he's still there, numb, hands and feet cold, but not caring enough to reach for the blanket.   
There were days when the two of them wouldn't leave. They'd lay together all day. Maybe more than a day. No one was keeping track, and the hours blurred together, pale skin and kisses.   
So many kisses.  
And then there were days when they were everywhere and nowhere all at once- at the flat, around the city. John thinks hard, but he can't think of a single time when Sherlock's hand left his.   
He can't even count how many times Sherlock kissed him, in a dark corner, in a spare second.   
He can't even count how many times he choked on the words, 'I love you.'   
Sometimes he didn't say it. But Sherlock probably deduced it anyways, from his shaking fingers to the way he couldn't ever get close enough.   
He can't even count how many times he's cried since then.   
He can't count how many times he's called out for him, to no response.  
The flat is empty.   
John would have lived with him forever. He would have lived in domesticity, in bliss, in love. He would have married Sherlock. He would have never let him go.   
Now, John is alone.   
Now, Sherlock isn't here.   
And it's only John, and he can't lay for days. It hurts too much.   
It hurts his chest, his arms, his legs. His head.   
Pills do nothing. Alcohol does nothing. Medicine does nothing for him.   
He aches.   
There is only one thing that can make it go away.   
And he isn't here anymore. 

'Sh-Sherlock?'  
John's voice is small and shaking.   
After hours of deliberating, hours of sobbing; he's here now, on the floor in their bedroom, back against the wall.  
He simply didn't know what else to do. He hasn't eaten, he can't breathe.   
He can't function anymore.   
He needs to hear, to see, to touch. At least to know that he's okay.   
The phone is in his shaking hand, and he feels sick.  
He dialed Sherlock's number. He had to dial three times; trembling fingers had a hard time with the numbers.   
'Yes?' Sherlock's voice answered.  
Sherlock's voice is better than John remembered; the smooth tone of it fills up his ears and his head with one word.  
It's the only sound he's heard for two days now, and it's the only one he's wanted to hear.   
John's chest feels like it's been ripped open.   
He can't speak, he can't get any air into his lungs. He gasps, but none comes.  
Is this heartbreak? He's dizzy.   
'Sh-Sherlock.' John gasps out.   
John hears Sherlock's small, tiny little breath on the other line. It's enough to make John's bones turn liquid. The phone almost slides from his hands.  
'John.' He sounds breathless. John's surprised him. Sherlock speaks his name with a startling clarity, as if it's his favorite word in the world.  
And it used to be, John thinks. I used to be your favorite thing.   
John can't speak. His throat is closing up and all his words have squashed themselves. Nothing can explain how he's feeling. His limbs have given up, his heart and his mind and his body are all done.   
He can't move from this spot and he doesn't want to. There is nothing left for him.   
This is hopelessness.   
This is deperation.  
John would beg on his hands and knees, for relief. For him to come back.   
'I need you.' John finally says, and his voice is so low that he's surprised Sherlock can hear him.  
John shuts his eyes and imagines Sherlock, wherever he is.   
His hair's a mess, because he's been woken up. A small part of John's mind notes that it's about 2 in the morning.   
But no- Sherlock wouldn't be asleep. His voice doesn't have that quality that it has when he's been woken up. He doesn't sound dreary; Sherlock has been awake. On a case? John doesn't know.   
Sherlock's wearing a T shirt. John likes when he wears T shirts. He's sitting on the edge of some anonymous bed in a hotel room, or somewhere else.   
His eyes are bright, maybe he's crying.   
John is crying.   
'John.' Sherlock's voice is a warning.   
John, he's saying, I know you need me. But don't be stupid.   
John, I can't come back. There were reasons for what I did.   
John, I left you.   
'Sherlock.' John sobs. He can't think of anything coherent to say.   
He's never missed anything like this before.  
Sherlock left.   
And he took a part of John away when he did.   
'Please. God, please.' John knows he's babbling, and he feels hysteria rising but he can't stop it. He needs to say this. Sherlock needs to hear it.  
'God, Sherlock- please. Please don't make me stay here. Please don't... Please come here. Come back. I'm... I'm not -okay.' The rest of his sentence catches in his throat and his hand is shaking so badly the phone is moving against his ear.   
'John, you know that I-' Sherlock's voice rises the slightest bit, and he chokes up. 'I didn't intend to hurt you. Or abandon you. I fully intended- I... I wanted to be friends. I want to be friends. You are my best friend, John.'   
John feels physical pain at those words.   
You are my best friend.  
No, John thinks numbly. The phone slips from his hand and clatters to the floor, but John's ears are ringing and he can't hear it.   
No, I was your best friend.   
Then, I was more.   
And now, I am nothing.


	2. If I Do Not Miss a Part of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'That's what... What people do... When... isn't it?' Sherlock's voice catches the slightest bit and John is tense, hands desperately holding the phone, knees pulled up to his chest. 
> 
> 'When they separate.'

John wakes up on the floor. His head is pounding, and every bone in his body aches.   
He hears the dial tone of the phone, and the night before is rushing back into his head.   
He shuts his eyes, shaking his head as if it's a bad dream that will go away.  
It doesn't go away.   
John's throat is raw from crying and his eyes burn.   
Sunlight is streaming through the window of their-no, John's- bedroom.   
John can't face today.   
He doesn't want to.  
He wants to curl back up in the bed and breathe in the old memories, and love Sherlock so much that his chest hurts.   
But he can't do that. Not anymore.  
Sherlock left him.  
And now John had to do his part of the break up, and leave behind Sherlock.  
But not today.  
He doesn't move, he just clicks the end button to stop the phone's sound.  
And then he shuts his eyes.  
He can remember the day Sherlock left with shocking, painful clarity. 

'It's not about that!'   
Sherlock's angry. His eyes are blazing, his hands are thrown up, he's shouting.  
John flinches at every word.   
But he's angry too.  
'It isn't about you, John.' Sherlock's voice is full of venom.  
They're in their bedroom, John in the doorway, Sherlock standing next to the bed.  
John's mind is blurry now, about how exactly the argument began. But he remembers how it ended.   
Sherlock is looking at him, and John realizes what's happening. His stomach drops.   
'It's not about me?' John's hurt.   
'It's a matter of what's best.' Sherlock looks away from John, but John's already seen his eyes shining with tears. He can hide from anyone, but not John.   
Sherlock looks hurt, too, and he doesn't sound angry anymore.  
Why, John thinks, why ,why ,why would you say it if it hurts you? Why the hell would you say it at all?   
'I won't let you get hurt. Or killed. I won't let you do this anymore. I won't put you in danger.' Sherlock's voice cracks. So does John's heart.   
'I'm not- Sherlock, danger isn't- this isn't- oh god.' Sherlock turns around and grabs his coat, starts pulling it on. John stops when he realizes what's happening.   
'Oh, oh god. No. Sherlock-please-Sherlock.' John knows he's crying, but he can't help it. He takes two steps and is tugging at Sherlock's coat, repeating his name.  
Sherlock stops, and John has two handfuls of Sherlock's coat and is holding on so tight his fingers are numb.  
His knees are weak, and he doesn't want to let go.   
'Don't go.' John is broken. He can't imagine what will happen if Sherlock really walks out that door. He doesn't want to imagine.   
Sherlock reaches out, and his fingertips just barely brush John's jaw.  
John shuts his eyes and sighs, leaning into Sherlock's touch. It's so familiar, yet John doesn't tire of it.   
But then his hand is gone, just as quickly.   
'I'm sorry, John.' Sherlock's voice is hoarse, raw. He won't look at John.   
John doesn't understand.  
He doesn't understand when Sherlock pulls John's hands away from his coat. He doesn't understand when Sherlock is moving away.   
He doesn't understand when Sherlock is walking out of the bedroom.  
He doesn't understand until he hears the sharp, definate sound of the door closing behind Sherlock.

And since then, the door hasn't opened.  
And it won't, John thinks. Not until he's the one that's opening it.   
But John knows he can't lie here forever, as much as he'd like to waste away into nothing but dust.   
He needs to eat. He needs to shower. He needs to try and breathe without feeling this crushing weight against his ribs.   
He tries his best to stand, but he's dizzy.   
And he's just so tired, he has to fight the urge to collapse back into bed.   
He makes his way to the shower. As he undresses, he can't help but think that Sherlock does a better job of it than he does.  
Stop, he orders himself.   
Sherlock isn't here.  
He's never going to be. 

John eats a little. He turns on the TV, and stares at the wall above it for a few hours.  
Then he decides it's acceptable to surrender to the heavy, heavy feeling hanging over him.   
He curls back up in their bed.  
No use pretended that it's anything but what it is; theirs. It's always going to belong to the two of them. Sherlock-and-John.   
John can pretend to take ownership of anything he wants. But some things belonged to them as a pair. The bed, the cases.   
The whole bloody flat.  
It's not like John had a job. It's not like he can pay the rent when it comes. It's not as if 221 B Baker Street will every be anything but Sherlock-and-John.   
John vaguely thinks that he should move out.   
Then he thinks that he shouldn't.   
He also thinks that Sherlock also shouldn't move out. 

'Moving out?' John's proud of himself. His voice only shakes a little, and he's actually on the couch now instead of the bedroom.  
It's been a week now. John still hasn't left, but he's been getting better. He tried to eat and sleep more, and to think less.   
He tries to function.  
Right now, he's on the phone with Sherlock having another dreaded conversation.  
John's never been through a break up like this. He's refusing to consider it a break up. It's more of an amputation; Sherlock leaving is the equivalent of someone cutting out John's major organs and leaving his hollow body to deteroriate.   
Yet here he was, going through the motions as if this was all typical.   
Hearing Sherlock's voice pained John, but also gave him relief.   
He missed Sherlock, and he was scared he's forget the way he sounded, the way he looked.  
He was afraid Sherlock would fade into memories and dreams.   
'That's what... What people do... When... isn't it?' Sherlock's voice catches the slightest bit and John is tense, hands desperately holding the phone, knees pulled up to his chest.   
'When what?' John whispers.   
He wishes he was strong enough to speak. But he isn't.   
He's weak and he's alone and all he wants is to hear Sherlock's voice in person, apologizing and taking John back.   
'When they separate.' Sherlock says, and he sounds upset. Frustrated.   
You have no right, John almost wants to say. To be upset. You did this. You did this to me. You did this to yourself. You did this to us, Sherlock.   
'I'm leaving Baker Street.' John says without meaning to.  
He hopes it will get a reaction from Sherlock. Anger, even, would be nice. Anything at all.   
But Sherlock just lets out a shaky sigh.   
'No need for that. I'll be coming to collect my things.' Sherlock says, and John deflates. He'd been hopeful.   
Which was stupid, he reminded himself. Sherlock left him for good reason. Sherlock didn't want him anymore. He wasn't upset about leaving, he was upset because it was an inconvenience.   
'There's no point in me being here anymore.' John blurts out.  
'What?'   
'I said, there's no reason I should stay.' Sherlock is quiet on the other line. 'There isn't a damn thing left for me here.' John laughs sharply, feeling bitter.  
Sherlock doesn't respond for a minute.  
'5 o'clock?' Sherlock's voice is quiet now.   
John snorts.   
'Whatever you want, Sherlock.'   
And John's the one to hang up, angry and annoyed and sad all at once.   
He's overwhelmed and he doesn't know what he's supposed to do.  
His b- no, ex boyfriend, was coming over in an hour to pack up his things and walk out of John's life permanently.   
John looked at the wall and feels sick.   
This whole place is toxic- without Sherlock's bright brilliance, it's all become monotone.   
He knows he should eventually move out as well as move on.   
But he can't imagine a life where he isn't loving Sherlock every single day.


	3. A Part of Me is Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But now, looking up at those familiar blue eyes, it hurts. Those eyes are looking down at him with vague disinterest, as if John is a stranger. As if they haven't spent days in bed together, as if John hasn't kissed him a thousand times. As if he'd never really loved John at all.

Sherlock isn't late.  
Which John finds to be more than a little painful. Sherlock is never on time for anything, not a single event. No matter its importance.   
It's not like him. It's out of character.   
The idea of Sherlock changing, of him shifting his personality, it makes John sick.  
But not as sick as the idea of Sherlock pretending to be another person around John.   
Not as sick as the idea that this time, when the door closes behind Sherlock, it won't be opening again.   
Sherlock arrives ten minutes before 5.   
Not only is he not late, but he is early. John's stomach turns. He's trying to be brave. He's doing the best he can.   
But now, looking up at those familiar blue eyes, it hurts. Those eyes are looking down at him with vague disinterest, as if John is a stranger. As if they haven't spent days in bed together, as if John hasn't kissed him a thousand times. As if he'd never really loved John at all.   
Sherlock is standing in the doorway now, and John knows he's staring at him, his desperation written plainly across his face. But he can't move.  
Sherlock is here, and John's ribs are collapsing, crushing his lungs and there's no air, and he can't think.   
A minute passes. Maybe two. John can't move.  
Sherlock isn't speaking; he's brushing past John and into the flat with a blank expression.  
His eyes are ice cold.   
They used to be warm, just for John. Sherlock used to be warm around him. Now, Sherlock is vacant. An ice statue, untouchable.   
John wishes he could pretend like he knows what it means.  
But he doesn't. He doesn't know what happened, or what's happening. He doesn't understand.   
All he knows is that this can't happen. He can't watch Sherlock leave, not again.   
He's scared that Sherlock's reasons are too good. He's scared that Sherlock left him for his own good. He's scared that Sherlock's scared of something.   
'John.' Sherlock is saying, and John's feet are turning and walking to the bedroom without consulting his brain first.   
Sherlock's voice stirs something deep in his chest, and it aches.   
He's lightheaded at the sight of Sherlock in the bedroom.   
Their bedroom.  
It used to belong to just Sherlock.  
Until one night.   
The first night that they'd kissed, the first night of everything. Sherlock's mouth had tasted bitter, like coffee and smoke, and John could never get enough of it. Sherlock's hands had been eager, inside John's coat, pulling it off. His voice had been so soft, whispering things John had only imagined. Soft words, a soft voice. The phrases were punctuated with kisses:   
'We could go away,' A kiss to his cheek.   
'You and I,' A kiss on his jaw.   
'We could leave.' A kiss on his throat.   
'Just us, running away.' A kiss brushed against his neck.   
'John, you are all I need.' A kiss on the mouth then.   
John's mind reels at the memory. It seems foggy now. Why is it foggy? It used to be his best memory.   
After that night, the bedroom became theirs. And the claim that John-and-Sherlock had on the room, it will never go away. It belongs to them as a couple, and if there is no John-and-Sherlock, then the room should be vacant, John decides.   
Vacant except for when I'd like to curl up and cry in it.  
John looks up at him. The ache in his chest rips into agony.   
His eyes are so sharply blue that they hurt to look at, and they're full of their own hurt. Sherlock looks torn open, and it reminds John instantly of that first night and so many soft kisses.   
Sherlock looks desperate. Broken. The ice has shattered.   
John is on fire.   
Every limb is burning away to ash under Sherlock's pained gaze, every cell of his being is wilting to nothing.   
But he can't look away.   
No. Not when this could be the very last time.   
He forces himself to meet his gaze, forces the tears away. He can't risk this sight being blurred by anything.   
Sherlock is beautiful. He is everything he's always been but somehow more. In this moment, John can't reach out and touch him, can't run shaking fingers over pale skin.   
He can't.   
And maybe that's why Sherlock looks like a character out of a book, more like art than a person. Or maybe it's just Sherlock. He's always had the funny habit of surprising people, even John.   
John wants to kiss him so badly, but he can't.   
John bites his tongue. He wants to say all of this and more, but he can't do that either.   
'You can... You wait on the couch.' Sherlock's voice is quiet, but it still feels like fingers down John's spine, hands in John's hair, cool lips pressed to his neck. The familiar, breathy whisper of his name, the sound of shifting sheets and sighs.   
Everything that was familiar, but is now foreign again.   
John is numb now. He can only nod.   
He stumbles to the couch, leaning on it with both hands to keep from falling. His chest heaves, but he's still dizzy. No amount of air in his lungs can save him from suffocating.   
He could collapse.  
He'd like to. Just let his knees buckle, his bones melt away and his body give out underneath him. To crumble and break down in front of Sherlock, to make him sorry, to make him see what he's done. And then to crawl over to him, hands and knees, and beg, and then John's hands would find their way to Sherlock and they'd kiss. And Sherlock would be so, so sorry.   
Everything would fix itself. John would make tea, and Sherlock would experiment, and things would be the same as always. Things would be okay again.   
But John does not collapse. 

He listens to the sound of Sherlock packing.  
It's the sound of clothes rustling, of feet moving as he walks. The sound of silence in between; maybe he's thinking?   
It's the sound of their life being torn in two.   
It's the sound of John's heart breaking all over again.   
Just when he can't take it any more, Sherlock steps out.   
He has one suitcase, and it's black and generic and John's never seen it before.  
For some reason, it makes his eyes well up with tears.   
Here Sherlock is, leaving again, walking away, and all John can think is where did the suitcase come from, and why doesn't he have more clothes?   
It's the simplest detail, and it crushes him. It's unimaginable; to think that John knows even less about Sherlock than he thought he did. A few weeks ago, he would've sworn he knew every single thing there was to know about Sherlock Holmes.  
Now, he isn't even sure who this person is.  
His fingers are numb from clenching his fists too tightly. His throat feels hoarse from choking back words and tears.   
He stands, moving in front of Sherlock.   
Sherlock looks calm. He is unaffected again, and John is outraged.  
How dare he tear everything they had apart? How dare he walk out like this?   
John sobs sharply, the sound filling the room.   
Sherlock winces slightly.   
'I was drowning in it.' John's eyes are full of hurt. He's accusing now, and he knows he shouldn't. He knows it isn't fair; but yet, isn't it? Isn't Sherlock the reason for all of it?  
And John is drowning. The pain had made a home in his lungs, on his chest, weighing down so heavy that he hadn't been able to breathe for a week.   
'I was drowning.' He babbles.   
The waves of it crash over him, over and over until his beaten, lifeless body is dragged ashore.   
The salt fills up his mouth and eyes until all he sees and hears and tastes is pain.   
In his mind, John is in the ocean.   
'I thought you were too.'   
His voice is small, and he feels even smaller. He squeees his eyes shut.   
'John, I-' Sherlock's voice cracks, and John doesn't want to hear it anymore. It hurts too much; it's all just ocean and water and salt and pain.   
Drowning.   
'Sherlock, I can't.' John's shaking, trying to hold back tears. 'I can't hear this. Whatever this is. Just stop.' He's speaking without meaning to. His mouth is just working, and he isn't sure what he's saying.  
'All I ever wanted to do was-' Sherlock takes a shaking breath. John can hear him moving; is he closer? Is he... Farther?   
He holds his breath to listen, but hears nothing.   
Is Sherlock watching him now? He can't tell.   
'All I wanted was to love you.'   
John's heart stops.  
Sherlock sounds crushed. He sounds like someone has taken away his soul, his heart, and stripped it clean of all meaning and then stitched it back into his body. He sounds hollow, but still full of hurt.   
John is drowning all over again, the waves crashing into his chest, down his throat, choking him.   
He can't speak.   
Love you, is all he can think.   
Love, love, love you. John's mind is rambling on. It's a chant now, and it hums in his veins as he takes a deep breath.  
He needed to hear that so badly. He wanted to hear it over and over. But for now, and maybe for the last time, it will suffice.   
John opens his eyes.  
Sherlock is an ice statue before him, unchanging.  
His perfect look falters for one second, slipping away to expose the desperation there.   
Then it's gone; he's ice again.  
This is the last time, the last time they'll ever be together. The last time he'll stand here. The last time John will get lost in his thoughts while Sherlock waits patiently for him to sort them out. The last time John will look at him and think, I want to kiss you. The last time Sherlock will show human emotion only for him. The last Sherlock-and-John.   
The last.   
John feels overwhelmingly sad.   
And then anger is rising, and it's spilling over all the hurt and it's boiling under his skin because Sherlock has no right. He has no right to make John feel like this.   
'Well, you fucking got what you wanted until you were bored of it.' He spits out without thinking.   
'Bored?' Sherlock sounds timid. His mask drops away and it's just hurt there, and a sickening vulnerability.   
He sounds so timid.   
Which is ridiculous in John's mind- timid? Sherlock? Never. Not once in five years has John ever thought him to be timid.   
But now John's thinking that maybe he doesn't know Sherlock at all like he thought he did.  
That idea makes him ache all over.  
So much time. It's been so much time. Time they've spent together, time John has spent thinking of him.   
'Just...' John trails off. Just, what?   
Just stay, he wants to say. Just stop. Just kiss me. Just grab me and pull me in and... Just, stay.   
He wants to say it so badly that his hand shakes as he runs it through his hair and sighs.   
This isn't real, John thinks wildly.   
This is a joke, an act. It's an act and this is a script, and it seems I've forgotten all my lines.   
'Just... Go.' He says instead, because he thinks that's his next line in the script.   
Sherlock nods silently, and he won't meet John's eyes now.   
John's heart sinks, even though it shouldn't. He wants to see Sherlock's face one last time. He doesn't want to forget.   
But he doesn't get that satisfaction.   
John's been through breakups before. He can do this. He's done it before. But he knows that this is more than that.   
He knows his chest shouldn't ache this badly.   
He knows he should apologize.   
But he doesn't.   
He knows he should feel guilty as Sherlock leaves without another word.  
But the waves churning inside him are too loud, and he doesn't notice that the door slams on his way out.


	4. I Will Lay a Bed Before You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He starts by taking walks. Around the flat, around the block, sometimes as far as the store. The air is cold, and winter is coming soon, but he doesn't bother with a jacket. It would remind him too much of walks they used to take together, when Sherlock would stop and pull John's coat tight around him, smile and say, 'You'll get sick. You're a doctor, you should know.' And John would call him sentimental, and Sherlock would be mock-offended.

There isn't anything else to do when you'd been turned inside out like this. When you've had the best year of your life- one year, seven months and about twelve days, not that John's been counting- and then had it taken away in a second.  
It feels like betrayal, in a sense. To have the one you love be the one who turned you away.   
To have the one person that could always fix you, be the one who's shattered you this time.   
But John has developed coping mechanisms from his time in the military as well as the time alone that had followed that.   
So John does the only thing he can.   
John goes on.   
He isn't sure how, and it feels wrong. It feels empty, and cold, but he goes on with his life.  
He gets up. He eats. He sleeps. He showers. He even watches television. Or, he mostly stares at the screen while the shows play. Still; It's a start.   
He starts by taking walks. Around the flat, around the block, sometimes as far as the store. The air is cold, and winter is coming soon, but he doesn't bother with a jacket. It would remind him too much of walks they used to take together, when Sherlock would stop and pull John's coat tight around him, smile and say, 'You'll get sick. You're a doctor, you should know.' And John would call him sentimental, and Sherlock would be mock-offended.   
Now the gray jacket hangs by the door, alone; a long black one used to reside next to it, but now it is gone.   
John doesn't wear his coat anymore.   
He gets a job at the hospital.   
It's what he used to want.   
Now, it isn't what he wants it to be. He wants a chase, danger, fear; he wants long nights talking of murder, piecing together cases, running handcuffed together down alleyways. He wants frenzied kisses and backs pushed to walls.  
He wants feverish whispering and fingers locked together at night.   
This new life is different. It's all sterile, calm. It smells of disinfectant and clean blood. The flourescent lighting of the hospital burns his eyes.   
His veins ache for adrenaline.  
He's tired but so bored, and life just keeps going. The boredom sets on him heavily most days, a thick fog clouding his mind. It's too hard to stay present in what's happening when his brain wants to relive more colorful days.   
The days come and go, and he isn't sure when but he finally stops crying.   
He lives, and life goes on and on, relentless.   
The start of a new life feels more like the tragic ending of an older, more comfortable one.   
The nights are harder; the bed is cold and empty, and when John has nightmares he reaches out for a pale hand in the dark, but no one is there.   
It's in those moments, the fleeting seconds of panic in the middle of the night, that his lungs don't work, and John is drowning again.   
In the morning, he has a headache and his hands shake, but when anyone points it out, he shrugs them off.  
Caffeine, he says.   
Then, when caffeine isn't a valid excuse, he says it's nerves.   
It's not.   
He lies awake sometimes, thinking.  
He reminds himself of Sherlock often.   
He can't let himself forget. He needs to remember how Sherlock thawed from his icy personality for only John, and how he was so human. Raw, real. He wasn't the composed statue other people thought him to be; John can't forget that.   
The way Sherlock would lean in slow, take John's face in his hands and press their lips together so gently, so perfect. The way that, other times, he'd kiss John more feverently, with urgency and need and teeth. The way Sherlock would lace their fingers together at any time; during a case, in the kitchen, at a restaurant. The tentative way Sherlock's cold fingers rested against his skin at night, waiting for invitation, for confirmation. John's answer was so certain, yet Sherlock was always unsure. The way Sherlock's voice would crack when he'd say that he loved John.   
John can't forget that. Not for a second.   
So he relives the memories until they're fresh and sharp in his mind again. He doesn't talk about it, not with anyone. It feels too sacred; the whispers and touches are secrets between the two of them only.   
He pushes them away during the day. 

 

Sherlock doesn't call, and John doesn't either.   
It seems they have nothing more to say to each other.   
It's sad- the death of an era. The death of a romance so painfully passionate that it feels like the death of a vital organ. The death of a relationship so perfect it feels like the two of them can never be separate and whole at the same time.  
Now everything that used to matter, doesn't anymore. If they were to pass each other on the street, would they be strangers?   
Yet after everything, they don't have a word to say to one another.   
Do they? John doesn't know what to say. He isn't sure what he's supposed to say; would Sherlock expect him to be angry? Bitter? Or simply sad? John is everything all at once and sometimes it makes his head hurt.   
The thought of never hearing that voice again hurts. The voice that whispered soft words, that same voice that could cut up a person like a specimen in ten seconds, but that also said John's name, in the dark, to the sound of breathing and whispering and kissing. That voice asking, 'Can I?' for the very first time, that voice breathing against his skin.   
That voice saying, 'Goodbye, John.' for the very last time.   
If John called, he could close his eyes and listen and pretend to feel Sherlock's hand brush his jaw, pretend to feel cool breath against his neck. He could pretend that Sherlock is only a step away, arms open and inviting like always, waiting to press a soft kiss against his cheek. If he called, he could hear Sherlock apologize and he could take him back, he could have him again.   
But John doesn't call. 

 

The ache in John's chest subsides after three weeks.   
It doesn't vanish, but it dims enough that he can almost breathe without tasting the ocean.  
There is an unsettling sharp feeling in his chest sometimes, as if a knife is resting there where his heart should be, and if he shifts the wrong way it could puncture a lung. He knows that's not true, but still, he's careful not to shift the wrong way.   
During the day, he doesn't focus.   
He thinks of Sherlock.  
Often; or maybe the thoughts of him go on and on until they blur together into continuity. Maybe John never stops thinking of him at all.  
Pale skin and dark hair haunt him late at night, and he wakes up feeling the ghost of blue eyes on him. In his mind, Sherlock never leaves. Sherlock kisses him breathless and pushes him down against the sheets, telling him how much he wants to stay forever.   
Sherlock is there, his hand in John's, his eyes burning bright like they always did. He's there; his artistic fingers tracing patterns of nothing into John's skin. He's there, holding on and never letting go.   
John knows it isn't real, but his skin still hums at the idea, his chest still aches for the reality. Aches for forever.   
He spills coffee and burns his hand one morning after remembering a dream. His hands were shaking, thinking of Sherlock's hands against his skin.   
He drifts off to sleep during the day because he couldn't sleep for fear of dreaming. He doesn't want to see Sherlock's face in a dream anymore.   
He hears the sound of a floorboard creak and turns to see Sherlock there, hair messy from sleep and clothes askew, turning to smile at John before sitting on the couch.   
But when John turns, no one is there. It's empty.   
But there's the small moments, when he stitches up a wound or makes a child smile, and in those moments, Sherlock isn't there.  
He isn't there at all. 

 

John thinks about calling a lot. Just to hear his voice, even if Sherlock got angry. Just hearing would be enough. Wouldn't it? No more pretending, no more dreaming, no more thinking. Just the relief of hearing that familiar tone. He could breathe again, a weight would be lifted off of him.   
The memories would be revived enough for John to survive off of holding onto them.   
Sherlock, even if he got annoyed, would still speak. Hearing him speak would have to be- Enough?   
John isn't so sure that hearing is enough anymore.

 

He doesn't date. How can he? No one's words would sound the same, no one's kisses would taste the same, no one's touches would feel the same. No one else's voice shouting at 2 a.m from the kitchen about an experiment, no one else kissing him until he wakes up in the morning, no one else saying perfectly messed up little phrases to him can matter.   
It would be a terrible vacancy of a relationship, with only one person invested at all. John can't invest in anyone else. He can't even find the heart to invest in himself enough to get out of bed every day. There's a loneliness that aches in his limbs, makes him heavy, too heavy to move sometimes.   
Sherlock still fills up his head, his heart, the flat.   
No one else can matter.  
John can take walks and drink coffee and get jobs and smile at women, he can sleep in the same bed and watch the same movies and pretend like it's the equivalent of moving on. But he knows what the truth is.   
John can not love anyone else the way he loves Sherlock. 

 

It's been two months.   
Each day it gets easier, but it doesn't end.   
John wonders if he'll ever stop thinking of Sherlock. 

 

The flat feels entirely empty now. The traces of Sherlock seem to have vanished. John can't remember the exact color of his hair or his smell, or how he used to look laying on the other side of the bed. He's starting to forget the way he sounded; speaking, yelling, mumbling, moaning. He's starting to forget their late night conversations, even the little quirks about Sherlock- the way he held a pen, or ran a hand through his hair. He tries, but he can't recall how Sherlock likes his coffee or whether he sleeps with socks on or not.   
The memories aren't sharp anymore.   
Maybe that's okay. 

 

John forgets what it means to be Sherlock-and-John. He forgets what it used to mean to him, the label of being a unit of more than one person, of being so codependent that he is nothing without his other half. He's just John Watson again. The thought should choke him up. The thought of it should stab at his heart, should upset him all over again.   
It doesn't, not anymore. 

 

His life becomes routine at a point. He never calls. The phone is untouched. Sherlock's voice has faded from his mind. His ears don't recall the sound of it anymore.  
John looks at the phone sometimes, but can't even remember the numbers.   
Hearing his voice would not be enough. Nothing would be enough to mend him.  
There isn't any use in calling. 

 

He doesn't touch the phone until one Tuesday morning when it rings.  
The sound echoes through the flat, waking John.  
It's four in the morning.  
He's blindly fumbling for the phone and saying a sleepy hello.   
'John?'   
It's a familiar voice. John's heard it plenty of times, but never over the phone.   
John's suddenly wide awake.   
It's a familiar voice, but not the voice he used to dream of.   
Four in the morning?   
'M-Mycroft?' John's heart sinks. It's not Sherlock. He tells himself he wasn't hoping for that anyways.   
Why would he call?   
John can't remember Mycroft ever calling the flat; he knows he wouldn't call without good reason.   
Four in the morning, John thinks.   
Four in the morning cannot be good news.   
'John.' Mycroft says again. His voice sounds hoarse, and almost- no, John thinks. It's just the phone.   
Mycroft isn't upset.   
Because for Mycroft to be upset that would mean-  
'John, you need to know something.' Mycroft is quiet for a minute.  
On the other line, John is suffocating.   
He clutches the phone in both hands, desperate with anticipation.   
He refuses to breathe until he knows.   
His heart hammers against his ribs.   
'Yeah?' He chokes out. It's barely audible.   
Mycroft takes a deep breath. When he speaks, it sounds like he's holding back from something. Tears? Hysteria?   
John's stomach turns.   
'Sherlock is sick.'   
The words are so simple, so easy, but John's ears don't relay the message to his brain. He doesn't hear them, he doesn't comprehend.   
It does not make sense. Sick? Never. Sherlock simply doesn't have the time or patience for illness. He is immune to human weakness such as that.   
'What do you mean, sick?' His voice is shaking and his hands are too, now. He still doesn't understand, his mind is racing but isn't responding.   
All he can think of is cold fingers slipping up shirts, kissing in the dark, saying things they both meant too much.   
Sick?   
He can't feel his fingers, he's holding onto the phone too tightly.   
'I admitted him to the hospital two weeks ago, he didn't want me to tell you but-'   
John's ears are ringing.   
His mind refuses to focus: he sees cold fingers, a hand pulling his hair, his back to the wall.   
'I said, what the fuck do you mean?' His words are angry but his voice is hollow. He blinks but his vision is blurred.   
He can't see anything except the memories replaying behind his eyelids.   
The first time ever seeing Sherlock, the last time.   
It's all so vivid now, all over again.   
How could I ever forget? John wonders. It all seems to painfully bright and clear now.   
'John, I'm sorry.' Mycroft says, and he really does sound sorry. Why is he sorry? John wonders numbly. He grips the kitchen counter with one hand to steady himself. He sways on his feet.   
Why is he sorry?   
'Cancer, John. They aren't sure but they think it's cancer.'   
He shuts down. His mind is blank; images of pale skin and feverish promises are gone.   
Everything is gone.   
John chokes out a sob.   
He doesn't feel anything; is this shock? It's not the same as being numb, it's like each cell of his skin is being prodded with a needle, as if this cold feeling is seeping into him, down to his bones. He is cold.   
His mind still won't respond.   
Cancer?  
Sherlock?  
John shakes his head. No; it's just a mistake. This can't happen. Sherlock isn't susceptible to things like that; these are human things. Sherlock wouldn't get cancer.   
He couldn't; he wouldn't allow himself to be sick. It's inefficient. It's...messy.   
This can't be true.   
John's mind starts to panic.   
But, cancer isn't death, he struggles to remind himself. You're a doctor, you know this. There are cancer survivors.   
He is a survivor.   
If there's anything he does, it's survive.  
But John knows he's lying to himself; self preservation couldn't be lower on Sherlock's list of prioroties.   
John lets out a shaky laugh. Joke's over, he wants to say. I learned my lesson already. Now, put Sherlock on the line.   
You've had a good laugh, now it's time to tell the truth.   
Put Sherlock on the line.   
Put him on.   
Please.   
John barely hears the last words Mycroft says, but he will never forget them. Each syllable slashes through him sharper than a knife, and blood gushes from the wounds to the floor, John can almost feel it.   
'The doctors have given him a month. At best. I'm sorry, John.'   
John is drowning.  
In the dark of the flat, at four a.m, the phone clatters to the floor and John's knees give out and the water rushes into his head.   
A month?   
Mycroft is saying something through the phone, but John can't hear. All he hears is the ringing in his ears. He is deaf. He is blind.   
He isn't numb anymore; it's agony now. Everything hurts.   
A month.   
Sherlock couldn't be susceptible to this human weakness. John was supposed to be his only weakness.   
John was supposed to be with him.   
His lungs fill with salt, his mouth fills with it. Maybe it's the tears.   
This time, no air comes, and his vision dances with black spots.   
John drowns, and consiousness finally subsides to darkness. 

 

He doesn't know what to do.   
No one ever told him.   
He wakes up, and it's light out. Noon? Afternoon? Does it matter? No.   
None of it matters.   
No one ever told him.   
He doesn't understand what's happening. His eyes burn, his hands shake. He stands and falls. Dizzy. He tries to drink a glass of water but his hands shake and it spills and he doesn't think he can keep it down anyways.   
John knows trauma, he knows depression, he knows shock.  
He knows he's blindly stumbling into all three. But he doesn't care; and that's another quirk of shock and trauma.   
You don't care about logic anymore, because the world is taking your most important thing away from you, and you can't do a damn thing to stop it.   
He's always called it secondhand shock and trauma: you aren't the victim, but you love the victim, so you are feeling negative effects of their physical pain.  
It's not as simple as he once thought it to be, though.   
He doesn't know how to react now.  
No one ever told him.  
No one told him that he could love someone so much. That that person could leave. That that person could really, really leave him. That the love he felt wouldn't fade; it would only become pain. The happiness he felt would become numbness.   
No one told him.   
Why didn't anyone tell him?   
Sherlock will die. He will waste away in an overused bed hooked up to a needle and a machine. He will slip away into oblivion as silently as anyone else. His body will fail him. Even his wonderful mind will fail him. John can't let himself forget that precious knowledge for even a second.   
He doesn't need statistics, doesn't need a doctor's note. He is a doctor. He knows how things like this work.  
He knows the situation well; the patient is terribly sick. The patient progresses. The patient dies.  
Life goes on.  
But not mine, John thinks. My life is ending with his.   
There is nothing left for me after he is gone.   
A month, less? A month is so short. It's only three weeks.   
Not him, John thinks numbly. Please, not him.   
But John sometimes forgets the simplest thing; Sherlock Holmes, no matter how great, is human. 

 

John lays in their bed.  
It doesn't even smell like Sherlock anymore, but it's as good as it's going to get.   
Time passes.  
John doesn't cry, he barely breathes. It's cold. So cold, almost like that first night that Sherlock left.   
John doesn't bother with a blanket. He knows he won't stop shaking anyways.  
A quirk of secondhand shock and trauma.   
He stares at the phone but doesn't call.  
There's no use calling now.   
God, why didn't he ever call?   
He should have called. Just once.  
Now there's a month left; a month between Sherlock and- no, John thinks. This can't happen.  
Time passes.   
He wonders how time can do that, simply go on and on, when John's world has shattered in a million sharp shards and he is lying in the middle of it, a bloody mess.  
Consiousness and unconsiousness blur together.   
He wonders if he should go to the hospital. Would Sherlock want that? Would he want to see John?   
John doesn't know.   
He doesn't even know if he's physically capable of movement.   
There's nothing secondhand or watered down about the negative effects he's feeling.  
It is full force blunt trauma, a blow to the head, but John is still consious.   
His body aches.   
So he surrenders. 

 

'I have to see him.' John chokes out.   
Mycroft is on the other line, and John's hands shake so badly that the phone won't stop moving.   
His throat hurts from crying. Maybe from screaming. It doesn't matter, not anymore. John isn't the one who's sick but he feels like hell anyways.   
Secondhand, right?   
Mycroft breathing sounds heavy, the only sound filling the room. John holds his breath.   
'John, you have to be reasonable and-'  
'I have to see him!' He feels hysteria rising but doesn't care anymore.   
What does it matter? Who's there to see him fall apart? No one.   
No one, because the only person who ever was, is the reason he's crumbling now.   
He's leaning against the couch, steadying himself. Spots dance in his vision but he forces himself to breathe.   
'John.' Mycroft sighs. 'I know this is hard but-'  
'You don't know a damn thing!'   
There's silence.  
The quiet lets the demons in the empty flat run into John's head; he has a headache suddenly.   
Mycroft doesn't understand; he's not the one losing the most important thing in his life. Or maybe, he is, John thinks.   
'Come.' Mycroft says finally. He sounds tired.   
I'm tired too, John wants to say. But I can't sleep. Can you sleep? How could anyone sleep? Everything is grey.   
Come, he thinks.   
To see Sherlock. To really see him. Laying in a bed, all in white, so pale. Sick, even thinner than before. A skeleton. A needle in his arm? Probably. Not that it isn't a sight John hasn't seen before.  
He remembers the first time he ever caught Sherlock shooting up.  
His heart skips at the memory; late one night, the sound of books being thrown, frustrated cries. Then the sudden silence, and John had walked to the doorway.  
Sherlock sat there, against the wall, carefully focused on the point of a syringe needle pressed to his forearm.  
John had panicked. He'd been so angry, so upset.  
'How could you?' John had asked over and over.   
Sherlock hadn't responded. Too high, maybe?   
John had laid next to him all night. At a point, Sherlock had blindly reached for his hand, and then they'd slept just like that, hands together, breathing shallow.   
John had spent the night awake, making sure Sherlock stayed breathing.   
He remembers how terrifying it was, hearing the telltale hitch in his breath, wondering if Sherlock's life was hanging in the balance or if he was safe.   
John wonders now if Sherlock just didn't want to face the reality of his own addictions.   
Maybe Sherlock has always been sick, in a way.   
John's stomach flips at the thought of Sherlock in a hospital.   
Dark circles around blue eyes. He probably hasn't been sleeping. Sherlock always functioned efficently with or without sleep. But with cancer, too? He'd be beaten down. Sherlock, broken. Sherlock, dying.   
Sherlock, sick.   
John's lungs don't function properly at first. He struggles to take a few breaths and his head spins.   
'Where?' He exhales the word, so soft he isn't sure Mycroft hears.  
But he does. He recites the address of the hospital and John's shaky fingers write it down.  
John can't even thank Mycroft. He feels numb and shaky all over.   
The line goes dead and John's mind is screaming at him.   
Can I really see him like that? Can I do this? John doesn't know. He's never done this before.   
He doesn't want this to be happening. He doesn't want to sit by anyone's bedside. He doesn't want to see the brilliant, wonderful Sherlock stripped down to a hospital gown and an IV. He doesn't want to watch someone he loves die.   
But he doesn't get what he wants. 

 

When he steps out of the flat, the sunlight burns his eyes and the cold air knocks the wind from his lungs.  
He grabs his coat just before walking outside, on a whim.   
As he pulls it tight around his shoulders, he wishes he wouldn't have worn it. Just the weight of the fabric against his skin reminds him of the times he used to wear it.   
He takes a taxi to the hospital.   
He has to repeat the address three times because his voice is so hoarse. The drive feels longer than it is, and John lingers in the backseat for almost a full two minutes after the driver arrives.   
His hands shake, and he pays the driver too much, but doesn't notice or care.   
Then he finally gathers enough courage and strength to push himself out of the car.  
The taxi drives away and John stands alone on the sidewalk, trying to breathe as he stares at the building.  
He can see all the windows on each floor, and in some, he has a view of the hospital bed.  
So many patients, so many people. So many sick people.   
How many dying? John doesn't want to think about it, but his mind is offering suggestions anyways.   
Someone bumps into his shoulder.   
'Oh, excuse me-' A soft voice says.   
John turns and looks up at the sound.   
It's a young woman, with long dark hair and bright blue eyes. She's wearing a heavy black coat over a blue dress, and she's startlingly pale. She wears an apologetic, polite expression.  
There was a time when John would've been interested in her, a time when he would have smiled back at her or invited her to coffee.   
A time more than 3 years ago.   
Now, her pretty face is lost to John, except for one detail.   
Her features; sharp bone structure, blue eyes, black hair, pale skin- remind John too much of Sherlock and it renders him speechless.   
The woman stands awkwardly for another moment before apologizing again and then walking ahead of him and into the hospital.   
Her blue eyes are seared into his mind now. They remind him of the way Sherlock looked when they'd first met- full of light and life, curiosity and thirst for adventure.   
John thinks of the way they'd grown warmer for only him, the way that Sherlock would look at him as if they had a secret only they shared.   
Then he thinks of the way the light had burnt out of his eyes when he'd looked down at John to say, 'Goodbye.'   
John takes a few more deep breaths before he can move.   
He can't keep standing on the sidewalk.   
He can't keep revisiting old things. Not now. God, not now.   
He walks inside. 

 

John's never had a problem with hospitals.  
As a doctor, he rather liked them. He wasn't overly fond of being the one in the hospital, though.   
Walking into the white lobby, John found it hard to breathe.  
Nurses and doctors roamed the hall, in and out of doors, talking to each other over clipboards and diagnosis.   
'Can I help you?' The woman behind the desk has mousy brown hair and a plain face. She's tapping her pen as she looks up at John.   
'Sherlock.' He says. The name feels hollow and wrong in his mouth. It's been so long since he's said it.  
He used to say it so often;   
Sherlock, not now.  
Sherlock, please don't do that.  
Sherlock, a bit not good.  
Sherlock, why is this in the fridge?   
Sherlock, oh god, yes.   
And now the name felt wrong just to say, as if he had no right to.   
John swallows his discomfort.   
'Sherlock Holmes.' John's voice is rougher than he'd meant it to be.   
The woman raises an eyebrow, her expression shifting to slightly annoyed. She sighs.  
She types a few keys into her computer, and shuffles a few papers before reciting a room number to John.   
John thanks her before turning to the elevator.

The elevator is empty, which is good.  
Very good, John thinks, leaning against the wall for support. His head is spinning as he presses the button and watches it light up.  
I can't do this. He feels panic bubble up.  
He can't breathe suddenly, which really isn't helping the heavy feeling in his chest or the pounding in his head.  
He squeezes his eyes shut.  
His mind won't stop screaming.   
Why does it feel like I'm the one dying? 

 

Sherlock's room is just like any other hospital room.  
Clean corners, white everything, pressed and folded.  
There's a poster hanging opposite of the bed, with a photo of a forest and a quote that says 'Life is the joy god gives us.'   
There's a window, sunlight streaming in onto the bed, which sits next to a beeping machine.   
But then again, it's not the same at all.   
No; because there's a ghostly pale, skeletal figure laying in the neatly folded bed, with his back to John.   
The pale blue hospital gown hangs off of the terrifyingly skinny frame, and John can count the ridges of the spine from where he stands in the doorway.   
The figure rolls over to its back, keeping its eyes closed.  
It's Sherlock. Or what's left of him.  
'Ah.' Sherlock doesn't open his eyes. He sounds mildly surpised that someone is in his room.   
His voice is hoarse, an echo of the baritone it used to be. His fingers dig into the sheets just slightly as he breathes. His breathing sounds labored and rough.   
Still, he doesn't bother to look.   
John looks.   
He can't stop looking.  
Sherlock looks dead.  
He's pale; translucent. His veins are blue lines up his arms, under his eyes. His bones are painfully pronounced, his collarbones look sharp to the touch; John remembers dizzily the way he used to kiss them. His hair is too messy. He probably hasn't left the bed, John thinks. He looks thin enough to snap in half at any sudden motion.   
John chokes back a sob.  
He looks dead.   
'Mycroft, I said don't come back without morphine and-'   
Sherlock opens his eyes.   
They're startlingly bright and blue against the white of his skin. They are the only thing that still has any life; they light up his whole face, and look terribly out of place, like orbs sitting in the hollowed eye sockets of a skeleton.   
And oh god, John thinks he's still painfully beautiful.   
'John?' It's a disbelieving, breathy sound. He looks at John as if John is a ghost.   
He sits up suddenly, and John can tell that he's dizzy by the way his eyes unfocus for a moment.   
It's as if he thinks John is a hallucination.   
John's heart twists.   
'Sherlock.' Is John's strangled reply.   
Sherlock doesn't say anything, he just sits there and stares at John and looks more and more terrified.  
'I... I came for you.' John says finally. He still can't breathe and doesn't dare to move from the doorway.  
Any closer and he'd be able to smell the sterile hospital smell that has undoubtedly replaced Sherlock's scent.   
John isn't ready.   
He never will be.   
Sherlock's chest heaves and his eyes bore into John. He looks as if he's afraid. Not of John, but of himself.   
Desire lights up his eyes.   
He's afraid that he's about to scream for John to leave, or stand up and tear all of John's clothes away.  
John isn't sure which one he's so scared of.   
They stay like that for a while, eyes locked, trying to catch their breaths.   
It's not that they've never done that before; the breathing, the staring, the silence.  
But it's never been like this.  
John doesn't want it to be like this. 

 

'John. You're here.' It takes Sherlock nearly five minutes to say these three small words, and John nearly a minute to respond.  
'I'm here.' He chokes out.  
'Don't.' Sherlock says, his voice a warning. John bites his lip.  
Sherlock doesn't sound like himself.  
He barely looks like himself.  
'Don't cry.' Sherlock whispers. John barely hears.   
The words make him want to cry even more.   
The entire exchange makes him numb all over.   
They've never been the type of people to have deep emotional talks.  
They're in love, of course.   
But they never talk about feelings, they never cry together or discuss heartfelt poetry.  
It isn't like them.  
If John was crying, Sherlock would avoid it until he could deal with the issue in a logical and effective manner.  
He'd never ask John quietly 'Don't cry.'   
His breath would never hitch when he looked John up and down and said, 'Don't cry.'   
He'd never notice tears welling up in John's eyes, and choke back his own emotions to softly request, 'Don't cry.'  
Yet here he was, doing just that.  
John hates it.  
He hates seeing this; Sherlock so weak, so stripped down to his worst elements. Forced into immobility and medicated.   
Sherlock, in pain.   
He hates it.   
'Stop.' John sounds sharper than he'd meant to.  
Sherlock doesn't react.   
His face falls, entirely devoid of all emotion or expression.  
John has seen it countless times.   
It's Sherlock, shutting down, shutting out the world and all its pain. Shutting out John.   
'Do not do that.' John takes a hesitant step forward.  
Now he's in the room; he's overstepped the doorway and everything snaps into place.  
He's here, now. This is real.  
Sherlock is here in front of him.  
Sherlock's hands are twisted in the sheets so tightly his knuckles are white. Sherlock's jaw is set, but he's shaking.  
Sherlock is laying, nearly invalid, before John's eyes.   
Sherlock is dying.   
John realizes he doesn't have the time to tiptoe anymore.   
Time is precious.   
'Sherlock-' John takes a few more steps until he's just in front of the bed.  
Sherlock pulls himself up, so that his back is pressed to the bed and he's sitting up. He doesn't respond.   
He's looking at John as if he wishes he'd disappear.   
John's stomach turns.   
'I love you.' John says, and the words are jumbled up in his mouth, and they tumble out without any warning. He'd been thinking them, of course. He consistently, always was. He hadn't meant to say it aloud.   
Sherlock flinches at the words. John glances at his hands; still fisted up in the sheets, now nervously twisting the fabric.   
Sherlock averts his eyes.   
John knows what it means.  
Sherlock isn't the only one who can deduce a few details.   
Sherlock is thinking that he isn't good enough. He's believing that he isn't worthy of this affection, this love, this care.   
John's suspicions are confirmed when Sherlock finally speaks.   
'John, don't-'   
'Listen.' John is proud of how even his voice sounds. 'I love you. I love you, you fucking idiot.'   
Sherlock presses his lips together.  
His eyes race over John, calculating every detail of him; the way he's standing, the fidgeting fingers, the shaking hands.   
Sherlock's eyes flit back up to John's for the briefest moment, and they lock eyes.   
The air rushes out of John's lungs.   
This moment, this feeling; it's what he's been missing. Sherlock is staring at him, full of hunger, and John's skin hums in anticipation.   
God, he's missed it.   
The electricity that's always between them, even without a single touch.   
It's a tension that John is always terrified and excited to break. It's the unspoken promise; I am yours. You are mine.   
Sherlock darts forward and takes John's face in his hands.   
Their mouths collide, and it's painful- teeth clicking, bruising.   
John doesn't care.   
He's twisting his fingers into Sherlock's hair and kissing him back as hard as he can.   
Sherlock tastes faintly of blood.  
John doesn't care.   
Their mouths always fit together perfectly. John's missed this. Every inch of it, every second.   
Memories don't suffice.   
Sherlock isn't the same. The hair between John's fingers isn't as soft, the mouth beneath his isn't as warm.   
But it's enough. More than enough, and it's all they have now.   
Sherlock pulls away.  
He sits back in the bed, gasping.   
John wants to speak, but can't.   
He knows it's not right.  
Sherlock is laying here dying each second, his body collapsing and failing. John is losing him.  
Yet all John's mind can think about is having him.   
I miss you, he wants to say. God, I miss you. You're here in front of me now and I still miss you.   
I miss us.   
But he doesn't say it, because it will hurt the both of them more than it will help.   
'I'm sorry.' Sherlock's voice is rough when he speaks. His chest heaves as he gasps. He can't catch his breath. He used to be able to run half a mile without breathing hard.   
Now he can't even catch his breath.   
'No, I am.' John replies. He doesn't know why he says it. The words just fall out.   
'Why would you be sorry?' Sherlock's face isn't devoid of emotion anymore.  
His eyes are shut, and his shaking hand is fumbling with a cord on the opposite side of the bed.   
'Morphine.' Sherlock mumbles.   
John's heart skips a beat. He wants to reach for Sherlock's hand, wants to kiss him again. He wants to offer the most comfort he can give. He wants to make Sherlock okay again.  
Instead, he does nothing.   
'I'm causing you pain.' John says numbly.   
Sherlock stops fumbling.  
'You are,' Sherlock starts. He opens his eyes, but doesn't look at John. 'You are everything. You know that, don't you, John? You're everything that matters. So for all the pain you'll cause-'   
He glances over at John, and the corner of his mouth quirks up, as if the mere sight of John is enough to make him want to smile.   
Ordinary John, boring John. John sees himself as less than average, barely getting by. He isn't fantastic but he is functional.  
In Sherlock's eyes, he is more. He is wonderful John.   
Brilliant John.   
'-You'll bring me what little happiness I can still afford.' Sherlock finishes.  
John feels as if he could drown again.   
He swallows the feelings.   
He wants to remember Sherlock in his finest details; from the shade of his eyes to the way his hair looks.   
He can't allow tears to cloud up these memories.   
Time is all too precious.   
He pulls the chair by the wall closer to the bed and sits.   
John forces a smile.   
Sherlock doesn't believe it for a second.  
But the seconds are precious, all the same.


End file.
